Darkside
by Darkfangz13
Summary: Laaaate Halloween story! Sorry of the delay! Mycroft is a vampire and Lestrade is a hunter who has come to kill him.


A/N: Well, this was supposed to be a Halloween story but I just started a new job and got struck with a fatal writer's block so I decided to wait it out and force out a half-decent story instead of just giving up on it.

So, sorry for the belated Halloween story, and enjoy!

* * *

Darkside

The lone man say hunched on the front pew of the small chapel. With a dedicated concentration he worked in the light of the moon filtering through the round stained glass above the alter and a single candle that was close to burning itself away.

The items he was poring over were a collection of rather odd objects. A rosary of blessed silver, a crucifix, a vial of holy water, a handheld mirror, a silver stake, and a Bible.

There was a gun loaded with silver bullets under his thick coat, but he didn't like using such a tool, especially in church.

The first sign that he was not alone was the temperature dropping several degrees.

The man looked up and glanced around, but otherwise did not react.

Then, the candle on the pew next to him flickered and was blown out by a non-existent breeze.

This also garnered little more than a cursory glance.

He reached out and pricked his thumb on the stake, drawing blood, watching the scarlet drop roll down his hand and onto the floor.

The blood splattered onto the stone floor. Then, there was a man standing at the back of the room by the doors.

This caused the first man to finally pay attention.

"So you are the one?" The visitor hummed hypnotically, smiling lazily. "You are the one who seems to be hassling my minions. You're quite the thorn in my side, aren't you?"

"I can only try." The man near the alter shrugged warily. "You are the one named Mycroft?" He picked up the silver rosary and placed it around his neck to ward a nasty bite in the worst case scenario.

He hoped it would not come to that.

"And you are Gregory." Mycroft responded.

Next, Lestrade picked up the Bible. The night visitor only chuckled and shook his head.

"Oh please, you think that would stop me?" He scoffed.

The man raised an eyebrow. "No, I suppose not. But it's not for you." he said, nevertheless, he opened the book at random and began reading. Psalms were always a good place to begin when facing down fears.

Outside, someone - something - perhaps, a few more than one, began screaming. Holy Scripture was like nails on chalkboards to vampires and clawed hands rising from the depths of Hell, gripping like iron and holding fast, acid against skin, peeling every layer back to bare raw flesh and bone.

Mycroft inclined his head as if listening, the only visible reaction to what was being read was his fingers curling into fists. Then, with a wave of his hand, the screaming outside stopped.

Lestrade raised his eyes from the pages of the Bible, now reciting from memory. He glanced at the stained glass windows, wondering whether the vampires that had accumulated outside were dead or if they had simply fled.

"Anthea will have your blood for that." Mycroft remarked casually. "She'll suck your bones dry. A woman's face is her life, after all." A sardonic smile.

"It wasn't fair to outnumber me." Lestrade grumbled back.

"You've killed three vampires in as many nights." Mycroft smiled at him bitterly. "You will forgive my precaution. You seem to have come quite prepared."

"Your vampires have killed seventeen in a month!" Lestrade retorted. "Forgive my vindication."

They stood facing each other down.

"Why are you here?" Lestrade asked finally, breaking the silence. "Two years ago, the people in this village didn't even know that vampires are real, what brought you?"

Mycroft tapped a sharp-nailed finger on the wooden back of a pew. "Two years ago, a young man entered this village. Two years ago, he made the decision not to leave."

"What... Sherlock?" Lestrade whispered.

Mycroft looked sharply at him. "Pale skin, odd eating habits, eccentricity, and only coming out at night. Someone noticed. And someone called a hunter. This John, fellow, that sent for you."

"He's Sherlock's friend." Lestrade snapped.

"Why do you think Sherlock decided to stay?" Mycroft snorted. "I have no qualms about what he does with his eternity, Gregory. However, you came to kill him... that, I cannot ignore."

"You came to protect Sherlock... from me?" Lestrade asked him dubiously. "Boy, I feel special."

"You are of Van Helsing blood from your mother's side." Mycroft made a mockery of crossing himself. "God rest her soul. She really was a shrew, an animal with a stake, sometimes I think she loved the sight of blood better than we."

"You're insulting my mother." Lestrade sighed, exasperated, rolling his eyes. "Usually, people try not to do that."

"Do I look like people?" Mycroft asked scornfully.

For just a moment, Lestrade imagined seeing sharpened incisors and unnatural shadows playing on the wall behind Mycroft.

"Has anyone ever told you that you're a bit overdramatic?" Lestrade deadpanned. "Honestly, you're no better than Sherlock."

"And you are no better than your predecessors." Mycroft replied coldly.

Lestrade just glared at him for a moment. Then, he leaned forward. "You know what?" he breathed, gripping his silver stake. "Bite me."

"Charming choice of words." Mycroft chuckled darkly. "It will be my pleasure."

He lunged at the hunter like a panther in the dark, crushing them both into the altar at the front of the chapel. Lestrade grabbed his throat with one hand to keep his snapping jaws a good distance away and suddenly, the point of the stake was directly under Mycroft's chin and rising rapidly. Mycroft threw his weight to the side and dodged, grabbing the offending hand and squeezing hard.

Lestrade let out a pained grunt and dropped the weapon with a clatter.

_**"He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most High..."**_

Mycroft froze, clawed hand encircling, centimeters away from ripping out Lestrade's throat.

**_"... Shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty."_** Lestrade whispered breathily. _**"I will say of the Lord, He is my refuge and my fortress: my God; in him will I trust."**_

"Will you now?" Mycroft panted tauntingly and the smell of blood, so thick, so alluring, oh Hell, the smell...! Mycroft gasped, finally understanding what Lestrade had done. His flesh felt searing hot, like lava being poured under his skin and through his veins.

Mycroft thrashed, throwing his head back and screaming. In the light of the moon, Lestrade could see that his skin was already beginning to burn and blister down the left side of his face.

"Learned a thing or two through trial-and-error." Lestrade grunted, shifting out of Mycroft's grip. "Scripture works better when blood is involved." He nodded down at the thumb he had pricked on his stake earlier which was now pressed firmly on Mycroft's still pulse point.

Mycroft pressed his eyes shut and forced himself to breathe through the burning and the cloying smell of blood in the air, so close, so rich, he could almost taste it...

_**"Surely he shall deliver thee from the snare of the fowler, and from the noisome pestilence."** _Lestrade continued reciting, reaching with his injured but free hand for his holy water and mirror.

It was customary to kill vampires by exorcising it from the body it inhabited via ritual using holy water to cast it out, and to trap it in the mirror, then smashing it into little pieces, rendering its existence as shattered as tiny little shards of glass.

He took a deep breath and glanced down to where his tools of trade lay scattered on the ground in the brief scuffle.

_**"He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings shalt thou trust: his truth shall be thy shield and buckler."** _Suddenly, a cold hand with an iron grip clamped down on Lestrade's arm, making him jump.

_**"Thou shalt not be afraid..."**_ the hunter reminded himself._** "...for the terror by night; nor for the arrow that flieth by day;"**_

"Oh, but you should be afraid..." Mycroft slurred, breathing deeply through his nose. "Most afraid." He shifted forcefully from the hold the Scripture held him to the ground. One knee separated from the floor and a steady foot replaced it.

_**"Nor for the pestilence that walketh in darkness; nor for the destruction that wasteth at noonday."**_ Lestrade chanted carefully, inwardly praying to God - any god - for strength.

Mycroft got both feet under him and slowly pushed against the enormous weight of Lestrade's words from his shoulders. Slowly, arduously, he stood tall, one hand gripping the hunter's bloodied hand still to his neck as if daring him to continue his useless tricks.

He could almost pinpoint the moment that Lestrade realized that he would truly die. He saw courage bleed out of his eyes and a calm acceptance replace it soon after.

His mother always told him that they may take his life, but they must never take his dignity. Last minute panic was for those who were not prepared to die.

He knew he was weak, both knew that. No hunter nor vampire could think that any hunter could live so long chasing down the monsters that were. Years ago, it was his mother. Decades before that, it was his great-grandfather, centuries before that, Mycroft Holmes killed his first Van Helsing.

And tonight, it would be Gregory Van Helsing(-Lestrade. On his unfortunate father's side. His mother was always a crafty woman in both the hunt for monsters and for a man.)

_**"A thousand shall fall at thy side, and ten thousand at thy right hand; but it shall not come nigh thee."**_ Lestrade whispered softly, eyes falling shut.

Pity, they were beautiful eyes...

Then, Mycroft pulled him firmly against him and leaning in, breathing in the scent of him... his incisors protruded from his gums, gentling scratching over the thin skin of Lestrade's artery.

_**"Only with thine eyes shalt thou behold and see the reward of the wicked."**_ Lestrade said to him suddenly, bringing him up short.

He tasted blood on his lips... but it wasn't Lestrade's. It was familiar... it was his own. His lips were bleeding.

"What...?" He pulled back, still holding Lestrade firm.

It was only then that he, in his blind hunger, had forgotten the blessed silver crucifix hanging around Lestrade's neck. Lestrade's eyes were open and a remorseful calm swam behind the deep abyss.

_**"Because thou hast made the Lord, which is my refuge, even the most High, thy habitation;"** _Lestrade's free hand was hanging at his hip.

There was a gun in that hand.

_**"There shall no evil befall thee, neither shall any plague come nigh thy dwelling."**_ With a note of finality, Lestrade pulled the trigger. Once, twice, thrice...

Mycroft gasped as little lumps of silver ripped through him and he collapsed forward onto Lestrade's shoulder.

"For he-..." Lestrade's whole body shuddered and trembled under Mycroft's warm-less weight. He swallowed and began again, voice suddenly hoarse and dry. "For he shall-..."

Mycroft huffed a breath out on his cheek. "Sometimes, I forget you're not ruthless like your mother." he said softly, eyelids fluttering. "Such a gentle soul for so bloody an occupation... will you mourn for me?"

_**"For he shall give his angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways."**_ Lestrade gripped him and lowered him gently to the cold floor.

Was it always so cold? Mycroft had long forgotten what it felt like. He raised his pale hand to Lestrade's face, smudging a tear out of the corner of the hunter's eye. He had forgotten how warm people could be...

Sometimes, he forgot what life in the sunlight was like. Swimming in the rivers, playing with Sherlock as children, living children. Standing straight and proud and a little nervous as Mother adjusted their neck ties and knee socks before going to church...

_**"They shall bear thee up in their hands..."**_ Mycroft breathed out in a breath he had taken long ago as a child.

Was it his imagination that Lestrade held him ever tighter as he slipped away?

He closed his eyes and slept for eternity.

The End

* * *

Alternate ending. Warning! A little dark, this one!

Then, Mycroft pulled him firmly against him and leaning in, breathing in the scent of him... his incisors protruded from his gums, gentling scratching over the thin skin of Lestrade's artery.

_**"Only with thine eyes shalt thou behold and see the reward of the wicked."**_ Lestrade said to him suddenly, bringing him up short.

He tasted blood on his lips... but it wasn't Lestrade's. It was familiar... it was his own. His lips were bleeding.

"What...?" He pulled back, still holding Lestrade firm.

It was only then that he, in his blind hunger, had forgotten the blessed silver crucifix hanging around Lestrade's neck. Lestrade's eyes were open and a remorseful calm swam behind the deep abyss.

_**"Because thou hast made the Lord, which is my refuge, even the most High, thy habitation;"**_ Lestrade's free hand was hanging at his hip.

There was a gun in that hand.

_**"There shall no evil befall thee, neither shall any plague come nigh thy dwelling."** _With a note of finality, Lestrade pulled the trigger. Once, twice, thrice...

Mycroft gasped as little lumps of silver ripped through him and he collapsed forward onto Lestrade's shoulder.

"Oh dear." Mycroft sighed into his ear, unperturbed.

Lestrade jumped back, grabbing the vial of holy water, flicking out the cork, and throwing it onto him. Clear droplets sprinkled out of the open mouth of the vial and fell onto Mycroft's skin.

The three holes in Mycroft's body shifted and morphed into thick shadows, the horrible blisters of Scripture flaking away, the acid burns of the holy water melting into particles of dust.

Mycroft stepped forward, unharmed, dissipating a little at the edges of his feet as he did when he transformed...

... And when he flitted.

And before he could even blink, he was staring up at the tall ceiling, pain blossoming in the back of his scalp, stars moving airily across his vision. His gun skittered away across the stone floor as he was knocked flat. Mycroft had a hand with a vice-like grip on Lestrade's throat, pinning him to the floor.

Lestrade thrashed, gasping wildly as he clawed with weak human nails at Mycroft's hand, blood beginning to spill from under his fingernails as he tried to dislodge the firm grip.

_**"For he shall give his angels charge over thee,"**_ Mycroft whispered tauntingly, leaning down, his age and power defying even the Holy Words as he spoke them. _**"to keep thee in all thy ways."**_

With his free hand, he picked up Lestrade's crucifix, weighing it curiously in his palm as the metal burned his skin. Then, he tore the chain off Lestrade's neck and flung it away from him with disgust.

Lestrade's consciousness fought though the haze of oxygen deprivation when he felt the sharp prick of Mycroft's fangs sinking into his neck, his bottom central incisors scraping against his adam's apple...

His mouth opened in a soundless scream as his struggles increased desperately. Then, gradually, his eyelids shuddered to a close and his hands fell limply away from Mycroft's wrist, falling lifelessly to his sides.

And he died.

... ... ...

Mycroft's head lifted when he heard a stirring at the front of the church, the man was waking.

Lestrade let out a pained groan and his eyes flickered open wearily. The first thing he registered was that he was still on the floor of the church right where Mycroft left him...

... After blood had been sucked from him.

He inhaled sharply and sat up with a start before almost immediately falling flat on his face, head spinning, nausea pulling at his stomach.

He hurt everywhere!

"Oh good, you're awake." Mycroft remarked casually from a few pews down.

"I-..." Lestrade began dumbly through the haze of his mind. "What-...?" Then, he finally registered the voice and face of the man addressing him.

He instinctively lunged for the gun he knew was still on the floor somewhere but was wrenched back with a jerk. He fell back against the altar and realized for the first time that he was chained to it.

Why...?

He thrashed and struggled in his binds when sunlight caught his eye through the stained glass window and seared blindingly into his retina. He hissed and curled away from it.

Oh... oh!

With great trepidation, Lestrade licked his lips and tasted blood.

Somehow he knew... it was Mycroft's blood.

"You..." he breathed, shocked. "How-..."

Mycroft inclined his head. "Yes, Gregory?" he inquired sweetly.

"How could you-...?" Lestrade choked, thrashing again in his constraints as though he thought he had the strength to break them apart and tear Mycroft's throat out. _"You did this to me!"_ he screamed.

"You say it like you're surprised." Mycroft huffed.

_"Why?"_ Lestrade demanded angrily.

"Because I could." Mycroft shrugged carelessly. "Because I do will most other Van Helsings, they make such good playmates."

"You..." Lestrade paused. He had never heard even a rumor of a Van Helsing being turned vampire.

And he knew why that was.

He lowered his head and breathed out a long, calming breath, closing his eyes.

_**"Th-they shall bear thee up in their hands,"**_ he whispered under his breath. _**"lest thou dash thy f-foot against a stone."**_

That got Mycroft to pause and look at him. "What are you-... oh, Gregory." he sighed, walking toward him slowly.

_**"Thou-... thou shalt tread..."**_ Lestrade's voice was beginning to grow hoarse._** "upon the li-lion and... adder:"**_ His skin already beginning to blister, his throat burning from the inside out as he recited that which was so horrible to vampires, smoke tendrilling out from between his lips like the maw of a dying dragon. Just a little more agony and he would no doubt be dead like the rest of his ancestors._** "the young lion and the dragon shalt... thou trample under-... under feet."**_

A cold hand clamped down on his already scarring mouth, bringing instant but only temporary relief to his blistering skin.

"That's quite enough, Gregory." Mycroft told him firmly, holding him steady as he began to tremble and shake from the strain of his self-induced torture.

Tears, warm and clear, dripped over Mycroft's hand as Lestrade sobbed, shaking his head weakly. Mycroft slowly released his head, feeling hot steam and small particles of charred ash jump out of Lestrade's mouth in shaky exhales.

Lestrade's eyes were dull and clouded with tears of agony as he sobbed weakly. "L-..." his cracked, raw lips struggled to form the slightest sound. "_Let... me..._" The tears began anew. "..._ End... me._"

With that final plea, Lestrade gratefully lost consciousness again.

"What a tenacious little boy." Mycroft marveled with a sigh.

Then, with a sharp slash of his hardened nails, he cut the chains binding Lestrade and covered the newborn vampire with a thick cover before lifting him up and carrying him out into the daylight wilderness.

... ... ...

"What are you thinking, Gregory?" Mycroft asked, shaking Lestrade out of his thoughts.

Lestrade jumped and shook his head. "Nothing... just remembering when we first met." He stood up from his seat and began drawing the thick curtains closed.

It was nearing daylight.

Mycroft's hand closed over his on the fabric and the older vampire lowered his head into the curve of his spawn's neck, kissing the fading scars on Lestrade's throat thoughtfully.

The manor they took shelter in stood on a tall hill overlooking the village they had met in, they had never moved from the area for decades.

News had passed along that vampires had killed the young Van Helsing, years passed, the legend of vampires disappeared into folklore, and concrete cities began sprouting up from the ground where stone and wood houses once stood.

Lestrade had watched civilization grow from this very window without ever touching it. He had not left the manor once since Mycroft had brought him here an unconscious wreck, begging for death.

Mycroft watched him watch the living people longingly, everyday.

"Gregory..." he said quietly.

Lestrade shifted and patted Mycroft's shoulder without looking. **_"Because he hath set his love upon me, therefore will I deliver him: I will set him on high, because he hath known my name."_ **he recited knowingly.

It had been years since he had been turned vampire, he could ground out a phrase every so often without consequence.

He knew Mycroft disliked it. It was the closest thing to fear the immortal could feel anymore. 'Trauma' would be a more accurate description, but Lestrade never liked sorting out the semantics.

Mycroft tightened his grip on Lestrade as if the younger vampire might suddenly fade into ash for the Scripture. But he said nothing.

**_"He shall call upon me, and I will answer him: I will be with him in trouble; I will deliver him, and honour him."_** Lestrade smirked at the deliberately blank look on his lover's face.

He turned a little in Mycroft's hold and tilted his head, kissing Mycroft with slightly scarred lips. Cracked. Chapped. Disfigured. And Mycroft loved them.

**_"And with long life will I satisfy him, and shew him my salvation."_**

Lestrade pulled the curtain closed.

Daylight was here.

"Goodnight, world."

The End

* * *

A/N: In which I completely fail at describing visual effects... *sigh* Writing vampire stuff is hard... but at least I tried!  



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